


Bite to Break Skin

by Leela, qafmaniac



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Claiming, Knotting, M/M, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela, https://archiveofourown.org/users/qafmaniac/pseuds/qafmaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You and Scott decided that the big bad wolf should get a chance to redeem himself, and guess what? I was punished for your bad decisions. Again. I'd say 'silly human' but I'm not that either. Not anymore and not by my fucking choice."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bite to Break Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zoodlemouse13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoodlemouse13/gifts), [Thraceadams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thraceadams/gifts).



> **Beta** : eeyore9990
> 
>  **A/N** : For @zoodlemouse13 and @thraceadams, in exchange for their donations to keep @qafmaniac's pretty things up and running. Thank you for agreeing to share this story, after it grew far beyond the 1k minimum. Hope you like it. ♥ ♥
> 
> Banner by the very talented @qafmaniac
> 
> Translated in Russian by Zabuz here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1112239

  


A snarling growl echoes off the walls of the narrow alley, and Stiles stops dead in his tracks. He swallows hard. Maybe he should turn around, go back to the club, and take his chances with the handsy asshole and his freaky drinks. Maybe Danny and Ethan would help this time, if he could find them on that crowded dance floor.

Anger drives him a step forward. Nothing happens, so he takes another and then another, speeding up. He's almost to the end, close enough to see the entrance to the parking lot, when a low rumbling growl fills the alley and vibrates through him.

_Werewolf!_

Heart beating rabbit-fast, Stiles runs. It's too late, fucking stupid and a total waste of time, but he couldn't stop himself if he tried.

His lungs are burning and his legs are wobbling when he crashes into the side of his Jeep. He fumbles the keys out of his pocket and into the lock, almost dropping them. As soon as the door opens, he scrambles inside and gets the keys into the ignition.

A hand grabs his collar and yanks him out.

He hits the ground hard, head smacking into the asphalt with enough force that his vision fills with darkness and flashing points of light for a few seconds. When it clears, he finds himself looking up into Deucalion's eyes. Alpha red and burning with a dark emotion that Stiles' brain calls rage, but which is so much more than that.

"Don't tell me that you're surprised to see me." Deucalion's mouth twists into a parody of a smile. "And here I thought you were the brains of that random assortment of individuals you had the nerve to call a pack."

Words skitter through Stiles' mind too fast for him to string any of them together into a response. 

Four lines burn Stiles' skin as Deucalion's clawed hand scrapes down his neck. Panic clogging his chest, Stiles reaches up with both hands and tries to free himself from Deucalion's hold.

Deucalion bares his fangs and presses the tip of a claw into the notch at the base of Stiles' throat. 

"Speaking of packs," Deucalion says conversationally, as if Stiles isn't trying to get free, "you and yours owe me one."

"No! You can't. I don't want it. Not from you, not from him. Like never, okay? Not ever." 

His expression becoming even more feral, Deucalion lifts Stiles up with one hand and slams him back against the Jeep. 

"You say that as if you have a choice in the matter."

The bite is a bright flare of agony that makes Stiles feel as if he's going to pass out, throw up, and scream. Sharp teeth rip through Stiles' shoulder, tearing through muscle and nicking bone. Blood flows hot and wet down Stiles' chest, back, and arm. 

When Deucalion rears back, his lower face gleaming as red as his eyes in the lights, Stiles kicks him between the legs. Deucalion curls into himself, howls.

"No," Stiles says. "Never." And he kicks out again, with almost every ounce of strength he has left, saving only enough to drag himself into the Jeep and screech out of there.

He screams at the burst of pain when the Jeep jolts over Deucalion, and holds his left arm closer to his body, but he doesn't stop or slow down — not even for the one or two red lights — until he reaches Scott's house.

☽ ● ☾

Stiles is still banging on the front door when Scott opens it. He tries to enter, but something seems to pull him back. He fights it with everything he's got, pushing himself to raise his foot and take a step across the threshold. Dark red spots bloom in his vision, and everything starts to spin as his foot touches the hardwood floor.

"Mom," Scott yells. "Holy shit, Mom!"

Scott sounds frightened, and Stiles wants to reassure him, tell him that he'll survive, but it comes out as an incoherent cry of pain. And that turns into a scream when Scott picks him up.

"You're going to be okay," Scott says, as he carries Stiles into the living room. "Mom's home, and she can take care of you." His voice drops into something low and vicious, and his eyes gleam red. "Then I'm gonna go out and kill whoever hurt you."

"Scott McCall, that's enough. You're not killing anyone." Melissa peers down at Stiles, touches him gently, and says, "Bring him into the kitchen and don't put him down anywhere until I tell you to."

The room spins around Stiles as Scott turns around. As they move into the hallway, the pull catches at Stiles again. He clutches at Scott, using his strength, his ridiculous, oblivious obstinance as a shield against the urge to run out of the house toward whoever wants him. Toward Deucalion. Because Stiles isn't an idiot. He remembers when Scott was first turned, when Peter Hale was calling to him, trying to force him to join his pack.

"Okay, now you can put him down." Melissa's voice seems to come from down a long tunnel, faint and so much further away than the howl that's shivering down Stiles' spine. "Gently, Scott. He's hurt badly enough."

"Have to go," Stiles finds himself saying, even though it's the opposite of what he wants. "He needs me. He's all alone, and he needs me."

"Just stay with us, Stiles. C'mon, dude, you can do it."

Cloth tears in a loud rasp that hurts Stiles' ears. He tries to cover them, but Scott's holding him down. "Please," he says, even though he's not sure what he's begging for.

"Oh my god. I can see it healing." 

"Fuck," Scott growls. "I'm going to—"

Melissa interrupts him, her voice hard and angry in a way Stiles has never heard before. "No, you're not. I'm going to call John, and we're going to let him deal with this."

His dad. The idea of him knowing about this is like a sharp knife between Stiles' ribs. "No," he says. "You can't. He'll..." But he doesn't know what his dad will do. Not for something like this. 

But really, _his dad_. Stiles needs him, he needs Stiles, and that's enough to shove the howl down and away, turning it into background noise, because he just can't fucking make it go away and leave him alone.

Stiles pushes himself up, getting free of Scott's hold as if it were nothing. He reaches up and touches his shoulder. The skin is rippled under his fingers, still open and bleeding in a few places, but they're nothing more than shallow grooves. 

"Goddamn alphas," Stiles says. "Never listen to a word you say, just go off and take whatever they want. Why do I always seem to be the one who gets hurt in the process?"

"Stiles?" 

He ignores Scott, tries not to look at Melissa and the way she's talking frantically into the phone. Instead, he focusses on the feel of the plastic cloth underneath him, the myriad sounds that fill the house, the smells and the tastes and the sounds and the smells and the tastes and the—

" _Stiles!_ "

—slap across his face. 

"Ow," he says to Scott, rubbing his jaw carefully. "Don't you think I've been hurt enough for one day?"

"You were having a panic attack."

"Your dad'll be here in about ten minutes."

Stiles' brain freezes up, and he loses whatever he was going to say. Because no. Just no. His dad cannot see him like this, covered in blood, wearing nothing but tatters, and barely clinging to sanity. "Shower," he says.

Melissa gives him one of those exasperated looks, the kind that says, _you're an idiot_ , and always hurts more than she intends because Stiles totally wants to see his mom give it to him again. After a second, she nods and reaches into a cupboard for a trash bag. "Be quick, and put your clothes in this. Scott will get you something else to wear."

The trip back through the hallway and up the stairs is another nightmare of clawing need and fighting the urge to run out of the house. Deucalion isn't far away, maybe just across the road, and it takes everything Stiles has to keep on stumbling behind Scott.

Just inside the bathroom, Scott catches his arm. "You're my pack," he says, low and urgent. "I don't care who bit you. You belong to my pack."

"I..." Stiles shakes his head, trying to push the howl aside long enough to think. "I don't know. You can't feel him. This isn't like you described with Peter. I don't know if I can, okay?"

The faint sound of a siren in the distance has them both staring at each other. 

"Go on," Scott says. "We'll figure this out later."

Stiles doesn't bother answering. He strips out of his filthy clothes and stuffs them into the bag, tying it closed and throwing it outside. Then he jumps into the shower. 

The water is hot, burning over his shoulder, and taking the blood away in a swirl of red. Stiles tries not to freak out over how fast the bite is healing, but he can't help but examine it in the foggy mirror before he gets dressed. "Does the strength of the alpha make a difference?" 

He doesn't know for sure, but he has a sinking suspicion that the answer is yes. 

Noise from downstairs draws his attention away from the mirror. The creak of the door opening, his dad and Scott's mom talking quietly, as if stupid werewolf hearing didn't exist. He sighs and makes a face at his reflection. Damn it, why did they have to call his dad? It would only upset him, and Stiles doesn't want him getting caught in another werewolf fight. 

Nothing Stiles can do about it now, because they didn't ask him. 

"Better face the music," he tells himself. He gets dressed in the briefs and sweats that Scott left on the toilet seat for him. Then, after a moment's pause, he walks out the door with the t-shirt in his hand before he can change his mind and put it on. 

Scott gives him an odd look but doesn't say anything. Instead, he slings an arm around Stiles' waist and walks him downstairs. Stiles leans into Scott's touch, using the weight of it, the familiarity, to ground him and protect him.

The hair at the back of Stiles' neck rises as they get close to the kitchen. Two other people are in there, not just his dad and Melissa. He hesitates, losing focus long enough for his mind to be flooded with Deucalion's need. He squeezes his eyes shut and mutters, "Who?"

"Peter and Isaac," Scott says. "No one to worry about."

Stiles isn't quite so sure about that, but he nods and takes a deep breath. "Might as well get it over with," he says, and takes one shaky step after another, each one feeling as if he's fighting a strong wind, until he's in the kitchen and the pressure vanishes with a pop that leaves him swaying.

His dad stands up with a viciously loud squeak of wooden chair leg against linoleum. He stays there, a couple of feet away from Stiles, staring, looking as if he's the one who's just been mauled.

"It's okay," Stiles says. "I'm okay."

"Oh, Stiles," his dad says, and then he's right there, hugging Stiles carefully and pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

Pain slices through Stiles, from the bite on his shoulder through his chest. Tears prickle the insides of Stiles' eyelids. He clings to his dad until he's gently pushed back, and Sheriff John Stilinski takes his dad's place. John is seriously professional as he examines Stiles from head to toe and then focuses on his shoulder. 

"A werewolf," John says, and it's really not a question.

"And I'll be fine. Just like Scott and Isaac. I'm totally not going to be a lizard thing like Jackson, because I'm..."

"Stiles, shut up and let me think."

At John's order, Stiles shuts his mouth with a clack of teeth. Not too many teeth, or even sharp ones, for which he's grateful.

John runs a hand through his hair, not taking his eyes off Stiles' shoulder. "Who did this to you?"

"Deucalion." Peter wrinkles his nose and glares at Stiles as if he's offensive. "And this is why you never just set the bad guys free."

"Right," Stiles says, extending the vowel. "Much better to set them on fire and claw out their throats so they can drive innocent girls crazy while bringing themselves back to life."

"He's got a point," Isaac says. 

"I wasn't exactly in my right mind." Peter leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His gaze sweeps Stiles from head to toe, making Stiles wish he'd put the t-shirt on. "And there are ways to prevent that from happening."

"Silver bullets?" John asks. "Is that what I need?"

"Wolfsbane," Stiles answers without thinking. "Silver is more about the Argents and some kind of mistaken translation, or maybe wishful thinking by people who aren't hunters."

"You have until the full moon," Peter says, and everyone turns to look at him. "If you haven't found someone by then, you're Deucalion's."

"What? No?" Scott moves to stand next to Stiles. "He's in my pack."

"No, he's not." Peter's mouth twists into the smug expression that always makes Stiles want to hit him. "Deucalion bit him, which makes Stiles part of his pack."

There's a hubbub of noise after that, a cacophony of people arguing too loudly that hurts Stiles' ears and makes him want to scream at them to shut up. Instead, he waits for a moment of silence and asks, "Why can't I switch packs? Isaac did. Even Scott managed not to join yours."

"Hey," Scott says, but there's no heat in his objection.

"Isaac could leave because Derek didn't even _try_ to stop him," Peter says with a sneer. "As for Scott, he wouldn't have stood a chance if I'd been at full strength."

"I won't be part of Deucalion's pack," Stiles says, because he'd kill himself first. 

John comes to stand behind him. "I won't let that happen. If Stiles is in anyone's pack, it's mine."

"You're human." Peter dismisses John with a wave of his hand. "You can't claim anyone."

Hand tightening on Stiles' uninjured shoulder, John says, "Try me."

"No," Stiles says. "There'll be no trying. No claiming either." 

"How does he do it then?" Isaac asks, silencing the argument that rises up. "There has to be a way for a werewolf to change packs."

Melissa nods her head. "He's right. If you couldn't, the born werewolves would be completely inbred."

Scott frowns. "He said the alpha could let a wolf go, or not be strong enough to keep him."

"Neither of which applies to Deucalion," Stiles says, all of his attention on Peter. 

His eyes gleaming an odd color, not quite yellow or blue, Peter smiles at Stiles in a way that ramps up Stiles' worries. "You have to find a mate. An alpha, or possibly an extremely strong beta, who's willing to bite you, claim you, and bind themselves to you for the rest of their lives. And you have until the full moon to do it." 

"For the rest of their lives," Scott yelps. "What about, like, girlfriends and stuff?"

"I'll do it," Isaac says. 

"What part of 'extremely strong' did you miss?" Peter gives Stiles that assessing look again, and Stiles' skin starts to crawl.

"But seriously," Scott says. "If I do this with Stiles, what happens to me and Allison?" 

"Do none of you people listen?" Pushing his chair back, Peter gets to his feet and pushes his hands into his pockets. "Whoever bites Stiles has to mate with him. Permanently. The bond isn't a joke or to be taken lightly. It requires strength to supplant Deucalion's claim, and intention on both sides to spend the rest of their lives together. There can't be anyone else."

"But Allison," Scott whines, and it's like a knife through Stiles' heart.

"You're saying that my son has to go through being bitten all over again," John says, going over to stand between Peter and Stiles. "Why can't I just shoot the bastard? Wolfsbane bullets can't be that hard to find around here."

With Melissa joining in that conversation, and Scott seemingly lost in his usual Allison-laced world, Stiles heads for the kitchen door as silently as he can manage. And, whoa, is that a whole lot quieter than ever before.

☽ ● ☾

Out in the hallway, Deucalion's call seems to have eased up. Stiles collapses on the bottom stair and rests his head in his hands, ignoring the protesting throb from his shoulder. He's totally fucked. Totally, completely, and utterly fucked. Four werewolves in all of Beacon Hills, and he gets to choose between the two psychopaths.

A touch on Stiles' knee has Stiles jumping out of his skin. He looks up in time to see Isaac crouch down in front of him. Isaac puts a finger over Stiles' mouth before he can say anything. 

Stiles moves away from Isaac's finger and mouths, _What?_

Isaac offers him a piece of paper, Stiles' own wallet, and the keys to his Jeep. _Go_ he says silently and points at the door. 

Not that he doesn't trust Isaac, but...

Stiles unfolds the paper. There's an address on it, a phone number, and a name: Derek.

 _Go_ , Isaac mouths again. 

And Stiles hears what he doesn't say as well, because this really is Stiles' only option. He runs to Derek or he stays here and gives himself to... he shakes his head. No way he's going to allow himself to even think about that. He's not. 

When Stiles reaches the front door, Isaac puts a hand on his uninjured shoulder. Stiles waits as Isaac puts his lips right against Stiles' ear.

"I'll distract them," Isaac whispers, "but you've gotta hurry."

Stiles runs.

☽ ● ☾

Getting the Jeep into gear and on the road is a painful, loud, and jolt-ridden success. Stiles stretches out each gear until the engine is whining before he uses his left knee to hold the steering wheel in place and shifts as quickly as he can with his right hand. He blinks away tears each time he has to do it, telling himself that it's just the windshield that's blurry. When he's finally on the freeway, he breathes a sigh of relief and relaxes as much as he can.

About an hour later, the gas gauge drops below an eighth of a tank. Stiles grits his teeth as he goes to downshift before exiting and then mutters, "Fuckety fuck fuck," when his shoulder twinges painfully but nowhere near as much as it did before. 

There are three other people at the gas station when Stiles pulls in. He doesn't even have to focus to hear two hearts beating inside the store and another in the car that's sitting at a pump. For a few seconds, he doesn't even turn off the engine, just sits and listens.

It's freaky and it's fantastic, and he wants to know what the occasional stutter to that one heartbeat means. Is the person frightened or excited, or is it a heart defect or problem? He's got his phone out and is thumbing Safari open before his foot slips off the clutch and the Jeep stalls with a bounce that sets his own heart to thudding.

Deucalion's getting closer. Stiles can feel him as he gets out of the Jeep, pumps gas, and uses his phone to map directions to Derek's address, which is somewhere in the Santa Cruz mountains. He's jumpy, flinching and ready to dive into the car and race off at every sound, every flash of headlights. The guy who walks out of the store gives him a suspicious glance, but nothing unusual for a guy out in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night. 

An hour or two later, Deucalion's pull fades again. He relaxes a little but doesn't take his eyes off the road or his hand off the wheel, not even to turn on the radio. He absolutely doesn't answer his phone when it plays the Law and Order theme song.

"Sorry, Dad," Stiles whispers. "You wouldn't want me talking on the phone while driving anyway."

His dad tries three times before giving up. Stiles hits the gas and goes faster. No way he trusts his dad not to put out an APB on the Jeep.

By the time Stiles makes it to Derek's place, Deucalion's so close; it's like he's breathing down the back of Stiles' neck. He has to force himself to keep his foot on the gas, to shift properly and not into reverse. He wraps his arms around his torso, holding himself together, gritting his teeth against the pull and the increasing ache in his shoulder, as he focuses on getting to the darkened house. 

One paving stone at a time, one step at a time. It's like walking against high tide. Stiles leans forward, pushing against the current that's trying to pull him back. 

"Stiles?"

Derek's voice shocks Stiles into stumbling. He falls to his knees, The impact jolts through him in shockwaves of pain. He grits his teeth against the tears and the cry that burns in his throat, but some noise must escape, because Derek repeats his name in a way that sounds like worry. 

An attempt to push himself to his feet has Stiles feeling like he's sliding backward; so he curls his fingers around the sharp, crumbling edge of a stone and holds on. 

"Damn it." Derek's there, wrapping his arms around Stiles. He goes to lift him up and stops part way. "Let go," Derek says, and the careful gentleness in his voice is at odds with the thunderous way his eyebrows have drawn together.

"I'm totally working on that," Stiles says. "Just don't you let go, because I'm damned if I've fought this far just to lose right now." 

Derek's grip tightens as Stiles concentrates on peeling his fingers off the stone. As soon as he manages it, Derek rises to his feet, swinging Stiles up into his arms. 

His stomach swooping with the sudden movement, Stiles flails out his arms for a moment then loops them around Derek's neck. It's undignified and makes Stiles feel a bit like the damsel in distress that he absolutely isn't. 

As soon as they're inside the house and Derek has kicked the door closed behind them, Derek stops and tightens his grip on Stiles. He buries his nose in Stiles' hair, and a growl vibrates through his chest. "I should have killed him," he snarls.

Stiles pushes away from him, almost falling to the ground before he finds his balance. "Well, you didn't, okay. You and Scott decided that the big bad wolf should get a chance to redeem himself, and guess what? I was punished for your bad decisions. Again. I'd say 'silly human' but I'm not that either. Not anymore and not by my fucking choice." 

His voice rises almost to panic levels on the last few words, and his breath starts to come in short, sharp puffs of air. Stiles tries to focus on his breathing, but it just gets worse, until he's panting and a scream is growing inside him, deafening him. 

A squeeze on his injured shoulder slams him right back into focus. "Ow. Fuck. That hurts."

"Are you done?"

"Yes, I'm done. I'm so totally and completely done that there are no words for how done I am."

"So I can kill him now?"

"No."

Derek's eyebrows draw together. Lifting his chin, Stiles meets Derek's gaze and braces himself for the explosion.

It doesn't happen. Derek nods and strides over to the wall. He flips up a switch, and the sound of a gate closing comes from outside. As soon as wood clashes against wood, Deucalion disappears from the edges of Stiles' awareness and the pressure that Stiles has been fighting vanishes. His ears pop, and he feels almost dizzy with relief. 

"Sit," Derek says, pointing to a couple of couches and a chair off to the left, and then he walks away.

The chair is clearly Derek's. Stiles can smell him all over it, see him in the scuffed leather and the tiny scars and rips in the arms that look like they were made by claws. A tumbler of whiskey is sitting on the table next to it. Stiles is holding it up, watching the play of light in the amber liquid when Derek walks back in.

"I like the taste," Derek says, taking the glass from him and putting it back down on the table.

A thought strikes Stiles and a kind of sad awe fills him as he looks from the glass to Derek. "You've never been drunk."

"And you'll never get drunk again."

Because it seems like the perfect _fuck you_ , Stiles grabs the glass and drains its contents. He doesn't even cough or really feel a good burn from it, which so totally sucks he has no words for it. 

"You were bitten," Derek says into the silence. There's something odd and flat about his tone that Stiles can't quite identify.

He's clearly not going to say anything else though. He just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, and stares at Stiles in that not-quite-menacing way of his.

"Yes," Stiles snarls with all the righteous anger he has. "I was bitten. By Deucalion. Because you didn't kill him. You just left him alive and not blind and without a pack, and he decided he wanted some of this." Stiles flaps a hand at himself. "I suppose I should be grateful or something, because it's not like anyone else has been falling all over themselves for any of it. In fact, _some people_ ," he glares at Derek, "run away without leaving a forwarding address just to avoid it."

The corners of Derek's mouth curl down ever so slightly and a muscle in his jaw twitches, which is how Stiles knows that he managed a very palpable hit. 

"What do you want, Stiles?"

He sounds so damn put-upon that Stiles is tempted to flip him off and say nothing. But that would be stupid in a way that Stiles has never been. "What I don't want is to be part of Deucalion's pack. I'm not exactly good at following orders, in case you hadn't noticed."

Derek snorts in derision, and Stiles' anger flares hotter.

"Oh, fuck you too. Fuck you and every fucking werewolf who thinks that what he wants is more important than what this puny once-human might have wanted." Stiles sounds wrecked, broken, on the edge of tears, even to himself. He rubs his nose with the heel of his hand and sniffs wetly.

"What about Scott? I thought he'd want you in his pack."

"Allison," Stiles grinds out the name. He still can't believe that Scott would choose her over him, would rather hand Stiles over to a psychopath than give up his off-again girlfriend. "Peter, on the hand, would be more than happy to help me out by mating with me."

"No." Derek's eyes flare a brilliant blue-purple. "Not Peter."

"Then tell me who?" Exhaustion rocks through Stiles. "Please, Derek. Tell me who else can help me, because I think I'll end up killing myself if I have to walk out there and submit to that conceited, self-centered asshole of an alpha."

Derek seems to fold in on himself, like negative space. Stiles feels as if he should be able to hear all the air being sucked out of the room and replaced with something dark and still. Derek's expression shutters even more, becoming completely unreadable. "I'll get the spare room ready," he says, spins around and stalks off.

The couch looks comfy, and the chair even comfier, but Stiles heaves a sigh, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen, and then follows Derek.

☽ ● ☾

Like the main room, the walls of the hallway have no pictures. They're all narrow wooden panelling that's probably teak or maybe redwood. Stiles could figure it out with a quick internet search, if his laptop wasn't back in Beacon Hills.

He stops at the door to a bedroom. Derek is bent over, tucking in a sheet. It's such an ordinary act. An every day thing that's only special because he's doing it for Stiles. He's not even doing it under protest, Stiles is sure, despite the rigidity of his movements.

"Talk to me," Stiles says to Derek's back, and watches the muscles tense up even more. "I won't say a word. Just listen. I can do it. Cross my heart and hope to..." He trails off, unable to finish that sentence, because it feels too close to home.

Derek sighs and goes back to tucking in the sheet, folding the corner carefully. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to tell me."

"Does it matter?" Derek asks bitterly. "Scott's an idiot who can't see past the end of his dick. My uncle Peter's certifiable on a good day. And Deucalion," he sighs again, "was a fucked up mistake created from hope and a desire to be able to trust Scott."

"It matters." And it does, because Stiles wants it to. Because now that he's here, alone with Derek, watching Derek's muscles flex as he makes the bed, the want that Stiles has been ignoring forever is back again.

Straightening up, not making any effort to reach for the comforter or turn around to look at Stiles, Derek says, "Just once, I'd like to have a choice."

Then he turns around and walks past Stiles, out of the room, without looking at him.

Stiles starts, almost follows him again, but changes his mind. Instead he goes over to the bed. The quilt that's folded on the nightstand is faded and soft with age, and clearly made with love. The twelve panels are hand-stitched and decorated with stars, a moon, and a single wolf. One for each member of the Hale family, Stiles thinks, as he brushes his fingers over them. Some of the wolves are at the edges of their squares, reaching out to touch each other. One wolf is on its own, sitting on its haunches with a forest at its back and a cat curled at its feet, staring up at the moon. Derek, Stiles thinks, absolutely convinced of that truth, even though there's no way he can know for sure.

When the bed is finished, Stiles perches gingerly on the edge, careful to pick a spot where there are no wolves. It feels strangely disrespectful to sit on one of them. He's tempted to crawl under the covers, fully dressed, and go to sleep until he can wake up and have this all be a nightmare. 

If only.

☽ ● ☾

Stiles finds Derek in the kitchen. The lights are off and he's leaning on the counter, staring out a window into the night. People who aren't pack, who don't know Derek, would probably think he's relaxed and looking at the stars. But Stiles does know him, and there's no way to ignore the coiled threat in Derek's tightened muscles, or the way he's clasping his hands together.

Nope, there's no doubt about it. Derek is totally pissed off, and once again, Stiles has done it without even trying. He's still deciding whether to apologize to Derek for annoying him or yell at him for disappearing without saying goodbye, when Derek turns around. 

He isn't just angry, Stiles realizes, looking into Derek's eyes. There is grief there too, old and poisonous, and bone-deep exhaustion. 

"I'd like to have a choice too," Derek says. "Just one fucking time, I'd like someone to come to me and ask me what the hell I want instead of twisting me around until I can't do anything but what they want."

A growl builds in Stiles, not like anything he's ever felt before. It deepens his voice, makes it vibrate. "A choice? Seriously? You're the only one who has a choice here. You can say no. You can turn your back on me, kick me out of the house, lower those damn gates and let Deucalion have me."

"No!" Derek takes a step forward.

"Yes," Stiles spits out the word. "You can." He takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries to get control of himself, of the tears that are burning their way down his face. "Me? Not so much. Deucalion didn't give me a choice. Scott, my best friend, the guy who's been saving my ass since play school, who should fucking know what this feels like, tossed me the fuck away because he couldn't see past someone who doesn't even want to be with him. And then there's Peter..."

"Don't."

Stiles jerks backward, away from Derek, and a howl erupts from outside. It's long, mournful, and it tears through Stiles' chest. He's at the front door before he realizes it. He throws it open in time for another howl to twine around the dying echoes of the first. 

Staggering out onto the porch, Stiles yells, "How badly do you want me? Enough to fight for me? To kill yourself trying to get to me? Prove yourself, asshole. Come and fucking get me and _prove yourself_."

"What the hell are you doing?" Derek grabs him around the waist and drags him back into the house. "Are you crazy? Taunting him like that? Do you want to submit to him?"

"Why not?" Stiles almost chokes on the sobs tearing through him. "It's not like anyone else wants me."

"You don't know that?"

"Yes I do. I've been rejected more times than I can count, and only three people have ever wanted me. One of them is dead. One bit me against my will. And the other—" Stiles yanks himself free and slams his fist against the wall. His knuckles shatter in a blast of pain and start to knit back together. "What the hell am I supposed to do? Tell me, all right? Because I haven't a fucking clue."

Derek catches him again and brings him down to the floor. He holds Stiles tight and lets him cry, and Stiles doesn't know whether he wants to hurt Derek or to kiss him. 

Until Derek puts a finger under Stiles' chin, tipping his head up, and gently wipes away the tears from his face. 

Another howl fills the air, and Stiles flinches. 

"If I bite you," Derek says, his voice low and urgent, "it's forever. I won't be able to let you go. Not for anything or anyone."

"Not quite a fate worse than death." Stiles sniffs. 

"For whom?"

"Oh my god, you said 'whom'. I think I'm in love." 

"Stop, please." 

The way Derek grits out the words, as if they're hurting him, shuts Stiles up. He presses his forehead against Derek's shoulder and murmurs, "I'm listening."

"You'll be mine," Derek's fingers spasm on Stiles's hips, digging in, possessive and needy, "and I'll be yours." He pauses, and then, in a barely audible whisper, adds, "If you want me."

Instead of responding immediately, Stiles forces himself to swallow his flippant answer and think past the howling that's driving him mad. He breathes in Derek's scent, of leather and the bitter salt of tears, and he tastes the hurt in Derek's words that matches the one deep inside Stiles. 

He slides his arms around Derek's shoulders and mumbles into the curve of Derek's neck. "I want you. I just can't imagine why you'd want me." _Why anyone would_ , he adds silently.

"I can," Derek says. "I've wanted you for longer than is sane or safe for either of us, but I wouldn't have..."

Stiles straightens up and gives him a narrow-eyed stare. "What wouldn't you have done?" 

"Changed you." 

The idea that someone, that Derek, could want him for him breaks something that's as fragile as glass inside Stiles, smashing it into tiny fragments. He has to know though, he has to be sure, so he moves slowly, cups Derek's jaw with his hands and he kisses him. Slow and tentative, nothing more than a press of his lips against Derek's, and he almost cries when Derek moves. His kiss is prickly with stubble, but just as soft, as slow, as tentative.

☽ ● ☾

After the kiss, Stiles leans his forehead against Derek's and they stay there, sitting on the floor by the front door. The howling gets worse. It rises higher and higher until Stiles thinks he's going to go crazy — crazier — from it. He leans into Derek and presses his hands over his ears. It doesn't help at all. Deucalion's angry demands aren't muffled in the least.

Werewolf hearing sucks far worse than Stiles had ever imagined. He liked not knowing the things he didn't know, not hearing them or smelling them.

His hands are pried away, more gently than Stiles knew Derek was capable of being. "You get used to it," Derek says, "or so I'm told." 

And just like that Stiles is reminded that Derek is different, that didn't have a choice either because he was born to this. His mind almost breaks under the stress of trying to imagine what it must be like, to never have known anything except hiding who you are, what you are, from the world around you, and at the same time being overwhelmed by the smell, the taste, the unwanted truth about who and what everyone else is.

Not wanting to ask, to give voice to any of the thoughts tumbling through this head, Stiles kisses Derek again. This time Derek's hand comes up to cup Stiles' jaw, and he sucks on Stiles' lower lip, sending heat flaring through Stiles. 

The timbre of Deucalion's howls changes, becoming deeper. A strange pressure builds in the air. A push, instead of the pull that Stiles fought for so many hours. He shifts away from Derek, breaking their kiss, and tries to clear his ears with a yawn. It doesn't help, neither does wiggling his fingers in his ears. 

"He's pushing at the mountain ash barrier," Derek says before Stiles can ask. "He shouldn't be able to break it, but neither should Scott."

"What happens..." Stiles' voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. "What if he does?"

Scowling, Derek pulls back and withdraws into himself like a black hole folding into space. The pressure increases as he does it, weighing down on the mostly healed bite on Stiles' shoulder. Acting on instinct, Stiles reaches for him. When his hand touches Derek's arm, the sensation changes again. It doesn't quite ease but becomes more bearable. 

"Tell me," Stiles demands, "because he's coming for me and that means I need to know. Everything, not just the things that you think are safe."

Derek stills, barely seeming to breathe, and Stiles' frustration mounts. He tightens his grip on Derek's arm and his fingernails turn into claws and dig into the skin, scenting the air with Derek's blood.

"We fight," Derek finally grits out, "and he wins."

"No!" The word punches out of Stiles, leaving his sternum feeling bruised. "He is totally not going to win. I refuse, so he can't." When Derek doesn't reply, Stiles says, "Plan B. What is it? Because there's always another plan, one that's so ridiculously crazy anyone else would run screaming from it, and we always work it like Miley Cyrus giving tongue."

"Who?"

"Don't worry about that. Forget I mentioned her." Stiles waves a hand, as if clearing smoke out of the air. "See? All gone now. I didn't say a thing. Let's just get back to our crazy ass plan."

"I bite you."

"That's it? That's our plan? You bite me, and—" Stiles' brain catches up with his mouth, and he stops. "Oh."

"You have to want it," Derek says. "There's no time to work up to liking me. Or for slow seduction and hot sex."

The air shudders around them, and the walls creak. 

"Idiot wolf." Stiles flicks the end of Derek's nose. "Would I come here if I didn't at least like you? Now bite me like you mean it."

A growl rips out of Derek's throat. Stiles finds himself being manhandled until he's right up against Derek with his back to Derek's chest.

"Okay, then. Cave wolf it is."

Slipping a hand in Stiles' hair, Derek pulls his head sideways and bares Stiles' neck. He nuzzles Stiles' skin, breathing him in.

"One hundred percent Stilinski," Stiles says, because he needs to distract himself from the way the bite on his shoulder is pulsing to the pounding of his heart. "Everybody wants up in it."

Deucalion's howl doubles and triples on itself. 

Derek slides his right arm under Stiles's, twines their fingers together, and brings their joined hands to rest over Stiles' heart. 

Stiles tightens his hold until Derek's knuckles dig into Stiles' fingers. 

"Fight," Derek says, and then he bites.

Sharp teeth slice through skin and muscle. Pain rips through Stiles, tearing at his body and soul. Heat pours into him from Derek, demanding his attention, and Stiles presses up into him. Then Deucalion's pull intensifies, like he's set claws into Stiles' belly, trying to drag him away from Derek.

Stiles resists. He brings up his free hand up and wraps it around Derek's arm. 

Deucalion's call wrenches at Stiles, and he digs his claws deeper into Derek's skin. Stiles tears at Derek, caught between the urges to free himself and to hold on. His body changes, in a ripple of fur, muscle, and bone. His eyes flash, and his fangs drop. 

Teeth dig deeper into the back of his neck, sending a flare of heat through Stiles. 

He snarls defiance at Deucalion, presses back up into Derek's bite.

It isn't enough. The call gets worse and worse, digs deeper and deeper, pushing Derek away and out. Stiles feels like crying, because that's not what he wants. 

_Not. What. He. Wants._

He shoves _**NO!**_ at Deucalion. 

Something cracks from outside, and Deucalion's howl turns triumphant.

_Fight!_

It's thought, feeling, and need, coming from Derek and flooding through Stiles. 

Desperate, wanting to hold on and not give in, Stiles bends his head and brings Derek's arm up. Each movement is glacial, agonizing, until Stiles' fangs pierce Derek's skin and his mouth fills with blood.

Warm, coppery, pulsing with life and every emotion Derek has ever felt for Stiles, it's overwhelming. It's glorious. And Stiles can do nothing else but give all of himself back to Derek.

☽ ● ☾

Afterwards, Stiles turns to kiss Derek. Their mouths are full of blood and fangs, but it's hot and somehow sweet, and Stiles is starting to think he understands how Scott felt during an asthma attack. It's not that he can't breathe in — his entire body is drowning in Derek's scent — but that he doesn't want to breathe any of it out. 

He's reaching out, intending to run his fingers over the healing bite on Derek's forearm, lost in the need to touch...

The front door shatters inward. Shards of wood fly through the room, and pieces hang from the hinges and the lock.

Deucalion stands in the middle, arms hanging loose at his side, and a feral smile on his face. "You can't have this one too."

A growl vibrates through Stiles' chest, and he rises to his feet, feeling Derek stand behind him. "It's not your choice."

"You're not suggesting that it should be yours?" Deucalion's mouth twists in amusement, and one of his eyebrows arches upward. "Or perhaps this lout by your side?"

"Stiles chooses," Derek says flatly.

"No, I don't think he does." Deucalion's eyes flash dark red. His smile widens to show the sharp points of his fangs. 

He pounces, claws extended. 

Charging past Stiles, Derek bats Deucalion into the wall. The crash makes Stiles' ears ring, and the thought of Derek fighting this battle for him is a giant _Hell No_ reverberating through him. He snarls at them, scoops one of the longer, jagged pieces of wood up off the floor, and slams it against the side of Deucalion's head.

Deucalion staggers back, shaking his head, before swiping a sharply clawed hand at Derek. Blood spills down Derek's chest, and Stiles jumps on Deucalion's back. After that, it's a blur of rending claws and tearing teeth, slamming and being slammed against walls and floors. The air is filled with snarls, growls, and the sounds of furniture breaking. 

Then a clawed hand hits Stiles in the chest, right over his heart, and he's flat on his back, looking up into savage red eyes.

Derek moves toward Deucalion, who says, "Try it, and I'll kill him." 

"You won't." Derek says, but he hesitates, eyes flicking between Deucalion and Stiles.

"But I will," a familiar voice says from the doorway. 

Then there's the near-deafening roar of a gun going off, the whistle of a bullet passing over Stiles' head, and Deucalion topples away from Stiles, his hand scratching across Stiles' chest as he falls.

Cordite and wolfsbane hang in the air as Derek slams Deucalion to the floor, holding him there with his claws and weight. Stiles scrambles over to them. His dad follows closely behind. Stiles can feel the others crowding into the doorway, but he ignores them as he crouches next to Derek.

"Do not fuck with my son," John says, his gun aimed at Deucalion's head.

"Just kill me," Deucalion says. His voice is a raw rasp, and there's blue bleeding into the red of his eyes. "Or let me go so I can make a new pack. I will not be omega."

Derek tightens his claws on Deucalion's throat, cutting into the skin. "Stiles?"

The offer makes Stiles ache in body and soul. It's a choice that Derek didn't, really couldn't have offered Scott: a chance to be human again... if the legend is true. Or, more likely, to be an alpha. Derek's alpha.

Stiles is tempted, curious about how it feels to hold that kind of power over a pack; he's just not sure that he actually wants the power. So he shakes his head. "You do it." 

Shock is clear in Derek's eyes as he looks over at Stiles. "You mean—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Peter comes to crouch over Deucalion. "As cloyingly sweet as this is..." He raises his hand, slashes it down.

"No," Derek says, and he slices Deucalion's neck to the bone before Peter's claws can connect.

At the same time as John's bullet hits Deucalion right between his bright blue eyes. 

And a surge rocks Stiles back on his heels. The blinding, blood red blast of power burns through Stiles, flashing between him and Derek in ever narrowing circles before settling into Derek with a visceral, electric hum that Stiles can taste, feel, touch.

☽ ● ☾

The wail of sirens growing closer breaks the pall of silence that fell over the room after Deucalion's death and the flash of red in Derek's eyes. Stiles' heart starts to race at the idea of the cops invading Derek's space, finding this mess. All the blood, holy crap!

"Shit," Scott says. "Now what?"

Frozen in place, Stiles can't force himself to move away from Deucalion's body. Derek and his dad killed the guy — in self-defense, but fuck, he knows how well that goes over most of the time, especially three against one and no way to explain alpha werewolves. "Dad?"

The serious look that Stiles always associates with the Sheriff, not his dad, slides over John's face as he holsters his gun. "You two change," he tells Derek and Stiles. "The rest of you get that body out of sight. Now!"

Stiles is vaguely aware of Peter grabbing a blanket from the broken couch and tossing it over Deucalion, rolling him over until the body is on top of it instead of below it. He just can't look away from the blood, the destruction, the fucking _blood_.

"Come on, Stiles. You need to get this off." Derek tugs at Stiles' shirt. 

Still contemplating the blood, Stiles says, "Huh? What?" 

"Clothes. Off. Now." Stiles looks up to see Derek yanking his own shirt and jeans off and throwing them onto Deucalion. "Oh, yeah." He scrambles to get his own clothes off, not worrying about ripping them further, barely aware of being all but naked in front of everyone. 

When Derek comes back with clean clothes for them both, Stiles just takes what he's offered and goes back to looking at the blood. He can do this, he thinks. It's really not that much harder than creating mountain ash out of nothing. 

Blue and red lights flash through the windows. Stiles closes his eyes and reaches for his spark.

John says, "Go." 

Heat flares up as the spark comes to life, and Stiles focuses on the blood and how much he wants it to go away, wishes it into atoms and molecules and banishes them.

He opens his eyes to see Scott and Isaac, already shifted, grab the body and race out of the room, following Peter back through the house toward the kitchen and the back door. 

"Stiles," John says, his gaze sweeping the room. "Do not ever come to one of my crime scenes again. That's an order." Then, shaking his head, he steps outside to greet the local cops. 

It's only Derek's hands that stop Stiles from toppling backward when he realizes that the blood is gone. He can't even smell it anymore. It's as if no blood had ever been spilled. Only the shattered furniture remains to show that there was ever a fight in the room. 

"Oh my god," Stiles whispers. "Holy fuck, I did it."

"And we'll talk about that later, but right now, you need to get up so that we can talk to the cops."

Panic rears its ugly head again, and Stiles reaches for Derek. "We need a story. We didn't even talk about..."

"The Sheriff's got it." Derek pitches his voice too low for any humans to hear. "Just listen to him."

He wraps an arm around Stiles, his hand curling over Stiles' waist, taking some of his weight. After a momentary hesitation, Stiles gives in. He slides his own arm around Derek's hip, hooking a thumb into a belt loop, and lets Derek guide him outside. 

Sounds and smells overwhelm Stiles. Lights are still whirling on top of the cruiser. Voices chatter from the radio. There are rustles in the undergrowth, near and far. Faded cologne, rancid sweat, and the smell of cheap beef tacos. He swallows, staggers, and tightens his grip on Derek, almost tearing the loop of denim.

"—with my son and his partner," John is saying when Stiles can focus again. "We came home to find the door broken down and the main room trashed. It's a fucking mess in there."

John walks towards the house, still talking to one of the cops. The other raises his head and examines Derek and Stiles. His expression isn't quite disdainful, but there's a hardness to it that has Stiles pressing himself against Derek's side. He turns his head to the side, so the cop can't see his mouth, and breathes, "Whatever that guy says, don't take it personally. And don't answer questions he doesn't ask."

"No one else hurts you," Derek murmurs against Stiles' hair. "Not tonight. Not if I can help it."

Before Stiles can tell Derek not to make promises he can't keep, the cop is in front of them. "Derek Hale?"

"That's me," Derek says.

"I'm Stiles Stilinski." 

The cop flips open a notebook and glances down at it as if he's got notes in there, which Stiles knows for a fact he doesn't. He clears his throat in the kind of self-important manner that makes Stiles want to punch him in the throat. Or curse him. Or something. 

"While my partner is examining the scene with Sheriff Stilinski, I'd like to get your statements."

Just to be annoying, Stiles asks, "And you are?"

"Officer Jake Chen." He points at the badge with his number on it. Then he starts asking questions, simple ones because he clearly believes everything John is saying. Stiles answers most of them, being careful to stick to his dad's story about driving back after Derek's brief visit to Beacon Hills and finding the house like this. He's just about to explain why his Jeep is slewed across the driveway — seeing the front door was a shock — when a man in jeans and an oversized Giants sweatshirt stalks up the driveway. 

"Is this about those damn dogs?" the man asks. "Kept my kid up for hours. Good thing it's not a school night, that's all I have to say."

"Dogs?" Chen turns to him.

"Howling for fucking hours it seemed like. Not that anyone gave a shit when I called to complain." The man gives Derek a nod. "It stopped not that long before I heard all the noise from over here and called you again. At least someone listened that time. Guess property damage is worth more attention than animal abuse these days."

Chen exchanges a glance with his partner, who has come out to stand on the porch. 

The man huffs and asks. "This the same group who tore through the Bartletts' place the other week?"

That draws the attention of both cops and gives Stiles a chance to take a deep shuddering breath. A trembling starts deep inside him, and Derek pulls him closer. He can't quite stifle a gasp that rises to the surface when Derek accidentally presses on his bitten shoulder.

"Are you hurt?" Chen sounds as suspicious as the look he gives Stiles. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No," Stiles says. "I'm good. Seriously good. Not hurt at all." 

"It's been a long day." Derek interrupts what would have eventually been a brilliant response, Stiles was sure of it. "I dragged him out of bed before dawn, so I could take him to..." Derek shrugs. "After all these years, it was time to make things official."

Stiles' brain catches up with Derek, and he blurts out, "Engaged, you know. Although the asshole didn't have the decency to buy me a ring or wait until normal people are awake."

"And then we came home to _this_ ," Derek adds, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown that threatens vicious retaliation upon the supposedly-unknown perpetrators. 

"I see," Chen says, disapproval dripping from him in a way that Stiles can tell is about them and their supposed engagement and not about any crime that might have been committed here.

A shiver goes through Stiles, and Derek pulls him so close that there's no space between their bodies. They're now positioned so that Chen would have to go through Derek to get to Stiles. Somehow, though, Derek controls the shift that anger and a need to protect brings so close to the surface that Stiles can feel it. There isn't the slightest hint of fangs or claws, not even a flash of werewolf eyes.

Then John is there, along with Chen's partner and the neighbor, and Stiles can feel the tightness of Derek's muscles ease.

"We'll send someone out to take fingerprints in the morning, but you know how these things go," Chen's partner says. He turns to Derek and asks, "Are you sure nothing was stolen?"

Derek nods. "I think we interrupted them before they could take anything. If they were even intending to do that."

"Didn't take anything from the Bartletts," the neighbor grumbles. "Just tore the place apart, kicked in their TV, and trashed most of their valuables. Damn kids, if you ask me." 

The cop ignores him. "Do you need a recommendation for someone to replace that door?"

"I can lend you some boards," the neighbor says. "Keep this place secure until you can get to the hardware store." 

John gives him a tight-lipped smile. "We'd appreciate that, thank you."

There's more conversation after that, but Stiles just can't listen anymore. Everything that's happened just starts flying through his head, running around in circles until he's so dizzy that he turns and leans his forehead onto Derek's shoulder, putting his back to everyone else. Derek, thankfully wraps his arms around Stiles and holds him close, holds him upright. 

When he raises his head, the cops are gone and Derek's handing him over to John. "I'll be back," Derek says.

It's way more reassuring than Stiles wants it to be, but he doesn't argue. The Sheriff has become his dad again and that makes everything even better. He lets his dad take him over to sit on the front steps and leans into him as he watches Derek disappear into the night with the neighbor. Who hopefully isn't a crazy person or some kind of weird supernatural being out to get them, Stiles can't help thinking. He's totally had more than enough for one goddamn day.

☽ ● ☾

They've only been sitting down a couple of minutes when John's phone rings. Stiles wants to protest, because he needs his dad now; Beacon Hills can just go fuck itself if it can't survive without its Sheriff for one night.

Then John says, "Hi Scott," and Stiles makes grabby hands at the phone. 

John shakes his head and leans out of Stiles' reach. "Where are you?" After a pause, where the hiss and crackle of a shitty connection make it impossible for Stiles to hear Scott, John says, "We'll worry about him. You just worry about getting home without being pulled over." Another pause, and then, "We're fine. Working on getting this place boarded up for the night."

"Beacon Hills," Stiles says, speaking loud enough that Scott should be able to hear him even over a shitty connection. "Tell him that we need to take Deu—" he cuts himself off, just in case and corrects it to "— _it_ back home and deal with it there."

"Properly," he emphasizes, since John doesn't seem to get the urgency when he relays the message to Scott. "It has to be handled the same way as..."

"Stiles, enough. We get it."

"But we have to—"

At John's warning glare, Stiles subsides. He knows that look. Nothing good ever comes of it, at least for him.

"We'll be there as soon as we can. Try not to raise anyone's suspicions." 

Without saying goodbye, John disconnects the call and sweeps Stiles into one of his tightest of hugs that always makes Stiles feel loved and wanted. Stiles can't help but lean into him, the way he's done almost his whole life. Now that he's not moving, he can feel the bruises and small pains healing. Heat flares deep inside him and fades away. It's the weirdest sensation, and given what Stiles has been through since Scott was bitten, that's saying something.

"Tell me the truth," John says. "No more hiding anything from me. If he fucks up, if he—" his voice drops, becoming low, fierce, deadly "— _hurts_ you, I want to know." 

A momentary vision of Sheriff John Stilinski, of his dad, riding to his rescue in his cruiser, lights blazing and wolfsbane bullets at the ready, catches in Stiles' chest. All he can do is hug his dad, squeezing maybe a bit too tightly, and whisper, "Love you, too."

John might have said more, but Derek chooses that moment to stalk up the driveway. He has a set of boards over one shoulder, and Peter is trailing behind him. 

"Why is he here?" Stiles pitches his voice loud enough to carry to werewolf ears.

When Peter is close enough for John to hear, he gives Stiles a creepily satisfied smile. "Just making sure that my pack is safe." 

Every possible response that Stiles has to that skitters away at the reminder that he's now part of Peter's family, and that he _chose_ it. 

"Enough," Derek says, tossing the boards onto the porch where they land in front of the door. The alpha edge to his voice thrums though Stiles.

Resisting the urge to get up and go to Derek, Stiles says, as casually as he can, "Does it even make sense to board the place up? We're only going to have to pull it all down again to let the cops in to take fingerprints. And they're going to make even more mess for us to clean up."

Derek scowls at him and stomps off into the house. His footsteps echo on the wooden floors and set off vibrations that Stiles can feel through the steps. He pushes himself up to his feet and goes to look into the living room. 

It's a mess. Cracks in the walls, broken furniture, shattered glass, and shards of things that Stiles can't begin to identify. The blood is gone though, eradicated so completely that he can't even smell it. And without the blood, without being able to feel the damage in his body, the whole thing seems totally fake. Like looking at a TV set. It's not real. Not a place where someone was killed. Where someone tried to kill Derek, to bite him, claim him...

The crash of a toolbox hitting the floor makes Stiles flinch. He's suddenly aware that his chest hurts, that his heart is beating far too fast and he's making strange sounds as he tries to breathe. 

"I've got you," Derek says, coming in behind Stiles and pulling Stiles back against his front. 

Air rushes out of Stiles, but he can't bring any back in his lungs.

Derek nuzzles Stiles' neck and splays a hand over Stiles' sternum. Air dances over Stiles' skin as Derek breathes, but Stiles can't do the same. All that happens is that his chest jerks and an odd whine comes out of him. He raises his hands and clutches at Derek's arm, as if somehow that will help. 

"Breathe," Derek orders him, and presses his mouth against the curve of Stiles' neck and shoulder.

"Trying," Stiles grits out. He blinks as dark spots gather at the edges of his vision.

Blunt human teeth become fangs, sharp points dig into Stiles' skin, and an almost-electric tingle goes through him. He hiccups in a painful clenching of his diaphragm, and then air rushes into his lungs. He collapses back against Derek, letting Derek take his weight, and gulps in sweet, sweet air.

"I could stay and wait for the police," Peter says. He's crouching down next to the spot where Deucalion died and contemplating it thoughtfully. 

"No, you can't." John steps between them. "You're coming back to Beacon Hills with me so we can make sure that damned werewolf is properly buried." He glares at Peter. "I don't want him coming back to life. Understood?"

The sharp-edged, almost hungry look that Peter gives John sends a frisson of disquiet through Stiles. He moves away from Derek, towards John, and says, "We could all go together."

"I have to be here for the police," Derek says.

Teleporters ought to be a thing, Stiles decides and not for the the first time. Because he needs to be with Derek in a way that's almost instinctual, coming from so deep inside him, it makes him want to run away to Beacon Hills. He can't though. If Derek is staying, then he has to as well, and that's a total bitch. "It better not be forever," he grumbles out loud.

"It's not." 

His new expanded senses let Stiles smell Derek's withdrawal and hear the hurt and self-protection that underlie Derek's bitten-off words. The worst part is that he has a nearly irresistible urge to make it better.

He doesn't, not really. Instead, he looks directly into Derek's eyes, willing him to understand. "Good, because I don't like being forced to do something. Doesn't matter if it's something I want to do or not. It's the principle of the thing." 

John clears his throat, making Stiles jump and swing around to look at him. "We're leaving," he says, hooking a finger into Peter's collar and pulling him to his feet. 

Peter lets him do it too, which is a totally worrisome thing — or it will be later when Stiles has time to think about it. But right now he's got Derek and this house and the cops coming back and way, way too many other things going on. 

When John releases Peter, he gives Stiles a hug and a reminder that self-defense works just as well with claws. Then he goes over to Derek. Stiles focuses on their conversation, manages to hear a "Son, I know you mean..." before Peter distracts him.

"I don't hold it against you," Peter says. "At least you kept it in the family." There's a thread of satisfaction in Peter's voice and a flash of something that could be red in his eyes. The hug is tight and werewolf-fast, and Peter curls his hands afterwards, pulling them in towards his chest as if the touch burned him. 

Before Stiles can respond, Peter saunters off, apparently carefree and lazy, as if nothing happened. Stiles follows them out to the porch and sits down on the top step. He watches Peter get into the Sheriff's cruiser — front passenger side, damn it — and doesn't turn away until the lights of the car have disappeared from sight.

☽ ● ☾

Stiles stays there while Derek bangs around behind him. He doesn't move when Derek steps back to examine his handiwork, swears up a storm, and pries the boards off. He doesn't even laugh when Derek comes back out of the house and tosses a set of keys for Stiles to catch before picking up his hammer and nails again.

Not being a complete idiot, he does watch Derek work. The bunch and flex of Derek's muscles as he wields the hammer is mesmerizing. When Derek stretches, reaching up over his head to secure a board across the top, Stiles' palms itch with the urge to touch him. And when he crouches down, with his ass up and out, Stiles has to shift positions, spreading his legs a little further apart. 

Every inhale of air is coated with arousal, both Stiles' and Derek's, adding to the need that thrums under Stiles' skin. As soon as Derek kneels down to put the hammer back in the toolbox, Stiles crawls over to him. 

The closer Stiles gets to Derek, the more heat flashes through him from the fully healed bite on his shoulder to his cock. A matching red heat flares in Derek's eyes when Stiles stops and kneels in front of him, only a couple of inches away. 

Reaching out with a hand that's trembling ever so slightly, Stiles takes one of Derek's hands and slides their fingers together. Derek's fingers curl around Stiles' hand, holding on, and Stiles exhales a sigh of relief. Derek fits his other hand around Stiles's throat, leans in, and kisses him.

Derek licks into Stiles' mouth, possessive, greedy, and Stiles puts all of his own feelings into kissing back. There's nothing gentle between them now. Just desire and an instinct that drives Stiles to press himself against Derek, to roll his hips and rub their cocks together. 

It's a shock when Derek pushes them apart, releases his throat. Stiles snarls at him, because he _needs_. He's never been this close, never had anyone else touch him like this, and he's been through too damn much to just let it go.

"Not here." Derek stands up, pulling Stiles up with him. "No one else gets to see you like this."

Releasing Stiles' hand, Derek takes off down the steps and around the house. Stiles stares at him for a second, then chases after him. They're not really shifted, and yet the speed is more than anything Stiles has managed in his life. He's exhilarated, laughing, when he bumps into Derek's back and follows him through the door and into the kitchen. 

The door is still banging closed behind Stiles when Derek grabs him and hauls him close. He nips at Stiles' lips, then drags his mouth across Stiles' jaw. He buries his nose into the spot behind Stiles' ear, his breath sending a cascade of goosebumps over Stiles' skin. His hands stroke over Stiles' back, rub Stiles' ass, bring him closer and closer, until the only thing separating them is their clothes. 

Which is too much, as far as Stiles is concerned. He yanks at the back of Derek's shirt and grins when the fabric gives way under Stiles' new strength. 

Derek touches his lips to the pulse fluttering in Stiles' neck, sucks blood to the surface of his skin, scrapes his teeth over it. He's claiming Stiles all over again.

Need arcs through Stiles like electricity, twines down his spine, and into his cock. He arches against Derek, clawing at Derek's clothes, wanting to touch his skin. 

"Undressed," Stiles mutters against Derek's jaw. "I've been told it works better that way."

He wants to whine when Derek steps back, but then almost trips himself up trying to get out of his pants and watch Derek strip his off. He's hopping on one foot, tugging at the sock that's stuck on the other, and feeling oh so smooth and suave, when Derek turns on his heel and walks out of the kitchen.

Slowly.

So slowly that it should be illegal, displaying the length of his legs, the curve of his ass, the strength in his back and arms.

"Yes," Stiles crows, and then almost topples over. 

"Smooth, Stilinski," Derek throws over his shoulder, amusement dancing in his eyes. 

"You only wish you could do as well," Stiles says, wishing that his skin wasn't so white and his blush didn't splotch all the way down his chest. 

Then Derek pauses at the kitchen door and just looks at Stiles with so much intensity that Stiles can feel Derek's need against his skin. It's a magnetic pull that draws Stiles forward, close enough for Derek to sweep him up into his arms. 

They're in the bedroom before Stiles reacts. He slaps at Derek's chest. "We're werewolves not cavemen, you neanderthal. Put me down." 

"If you insist," Derek says.

He tosses Stiles on the bed and then just stands there and looks at Stiles. The heat of his gaze is a turn on and awkward at the same time. Stiles knows how he looks, knows that he's long and skinny and would need major drug intervention to develop anything like muscles, but Derek makes him feel attractive, _wanted_ in a way that no one else ever has. 

Suddenly, unexpectedly Stiles wishes that this was it for him. That his first time hadn't been a hurried thing in the back room of Jungle, because he was so desperate not to be a virgin that he'd jumped at — and on — the first guy who'd shown an interest. 

Derek places the tip of his thumb at the top of Stiles' nose and tries to smooth out the line between his eyebrows. "Stop thinking," he says. "Start feeling."

Then he gets on the bed with Stiles, and they're kissing again, and Stiles feels like he's burning up. He trails his hands up and down Derek's back. He runs his fingertips over the triskelion, over the ink that's burned into Derek's skin, and the slightly rougher texture that he hadn't been able to feel before. He sucks his own marks on Derek's neck, chest and shoulders.

At Derek's encouragement, he rolls onto his side and hooks a leg up over Derek's hip. Then one of Derek's fingers touches his hole, pushes just inside, and the bite on Stiles' shoulder comes to life in a surge of _yes, fuck, now_.

"Please," Stiles says, pushing back onto Derek's finger.

It's too dry, too rough, and Stiles doesn't care. He grinds down on Derek's finger, needing to fill the emptiness inside him, complete the claim that Derek started.

A tube opens with a snick, and cool liquid drips onto Derek's finger and Stiles' hole. 

"Better." Stiles bites at Derek's nipple, earning a growl from him and a second finger pushing inside. "Oh my god, so much better. Your fingers." Stiles rotates his hips and hikes his leg even higher to give Derek better access.

With another growl, Derek pushes Stiles onto his back. His fingers are still inside, going even deeper when Stiles brings his legs up and rests his feet on Derek's waist. Then Derek wraps his free hand around Stiles' cock, and Stiles arches back with a cry. 

"God. Fuck." Stiles wants to talk, to tell Derek how good he is, how much he needs what Derek is giving him, but he's losing his words to the ache, the need, the feeling of wanting Derek in him and on him. 

He moves his legs, slides them around Derek, presses his heels into the dents just above Derek's ass. Encourages him. Then Derek's cock is pushing inside him, and it stretches him, burns him, hurts him, fills him. 

Twisting, taking Derek's cock all the way in, Stiles clenches his muscles and holds him there. Derek braces his weight on his arms, stares down into Stiles' eyes. He lets himself down slowly and kisses Stiles. They stay like that, linked together, not moving. 

Derek pulls out and thrusts back inside, deep and hard, sending sparks tingling up Stiles' spine. 

Meeting Derek stroke for stroke, Stiles is running the edge of pain and pleasure. He's almost overloaded and yet still empty, still needing. He pulls at Derek's shoulders until he can feel Derek's weight on top of him, and it's still not enough. 

"Fuck," he manages to get out, and, "More." 

Then, with a growl of "Mine," Derek sets his teeth to the bite he'd made earlier. His blunt teeth become sharp fangs and sink through Stiles' skin. His cock begins to swell, to knot, to lock them together. It hurts and it's perfect. Stiles is filled. He's wanted and needed as much as he wants and needs. 

He runs a hand up Derek's back, wraps it around the nape of Derek's neck, digging his claws in and drawing blood. He arches up into Derek's bite, grinds down onto Derek's cock, taking his knot in as deep as he can. And he comes, crying out Derek's name and feeling Derek pulse inside him.

☽ ● ☾

The sun is shining through the windows when Stiles wakes up. He yawns and stretches, scratches at the trail of hair leading down to his cock, and takes stock of his body.

Nothing hurts, despite being stalked, bitten twice, slammed around in a fight, and having Derek's knot inside him.

He's not sure if he likes that or not. One of the things about being human is that everything he does, every event in his life, leaves a mark. He rolls over, intending to curl up in a ball while he thinks about that, and finds himself looking at Derek's back. 

Derek is sleeping on his stomach, his head turned so that he's facing away from Stiles. The triskelion expands and contracts with every breath Derek takes, and suddenly Stiles understands why Derek and Scott were willing to endure ink, needles, and flame to leave a lasting mark on their bodies.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles focuses inward. The ember of his spark is still there, waiting for him to call it to life. He can feel Derek too, in much the same way.

As if thinking about it is enough to bring the urge to life, Stiles starts to move toward Derek, to curl up next to him. He stops himself, because... no way. Not right now. He needs to be himself, separate and unique, not just part of a mated pair. If he can't do that...

Pushing the thought aside, Stiles rolls out of bed and pads off to the bathroom. He doesn't look at his reflection as he takes care of business. There'll be time enough later to see what the bite has done to him, how it's changed him. For now, he wants coffee.

And it's not simply good coffee. It's Jamaica Blue Mountain. With werewolf senses, the aroma is so much better than Stiles had ever imagined. Why had Scott never told him that it made coffee better? What kind of asshole keeps that kind of thing from his best friend?

Wearing only the underwear that he'd picked up off the floor, he leans against the counter and waits for the brew to steep. He presses the plunger of the French press down, slowly, evenly. 

He pours, stirs in a dash of milk and a touch of sugar, and then raises the mug to his lips. The coffee tastes as good as it smells.

Halfway through Stiles' coffee, Derek gets up. 

Stiles freezes in place, cuddling his mug of awesome deliciousness, and listens. Derek moves almost silently, but Stiles has no problem tracking him from the bedroom to the bathroom. 

He's totally not ready for this. Derek needs to go back to bed until Stiles has all the information about what this claiming thing means. Seriously, what happened to having time to plot and plan and come up with the best way to explain to Derek that no amount of liquid manna could possibly turn Stiles into a...

Every thought dribbles out of Stiles' head when Derek wanders into the kitchen, bare-chested and yawning. When he moans, "Coffee," Stiles is even tempted to pour him a cup. It's a damn close call, especially when Derek scrubs a hand over his bristly cheek and then up into his hair, but he finds the strength to step out of his way and clutch his own mug to his chest. 

Derek's only reaction is to yawn again, get himself a big mug, and empty the French press into it. No milk, no sugar, just black and hot, and fuck, Stiles will never recover from the way Derek's hands wrap possessively around the mug, the obscene noise he makes when he raises the mug to his mouth, or the look of ecstasy on Derek's face when he takes the first sip.

"I won't make coffee every morning," Stiles blurts out. And he hasn't a clue where that came from, but he's not taking it back either. Because, yeah, no way.

"Huh." Derek leans back, letting the counter hold him up. He blinks slowly, drinks his coffee, and makes another of those noises that make Stiles want to jump him.

"Seriously," Stiles says, "I'm so not gonna be your servant."

As if it's a major effort, Derek's eyebrows draw together and he frowns at Stiles. "Did I say I wanted a servant? I can make coffee. All by myself. Might even bring it to you in bed sometimes."

Stiles opens his mouth to argue then his brain catches up with what's going on. "You're annoying," he says.

"What?"

"I can't argue with you over that."

Derek shrugs. "You'll find something else to argue about."

"I..." Stiles stares down into his mug. At the picture of Thing 2 on the bottom. "The coffee's gone," he says mournfully. Then he goes over to the counter, pushes Derek out of the way, and lifts up the French press. "You drank it all."

"Yeah, I did."

"You're an asshole. A miserable, greedy, coffee-stealing asshole."

"Yeah, I am." 

Raising his own mug, Derek tilts his head back, exposing the length of his neck, and drinks all the coffee in his mug.

"Evil, nasty, miserable, greedy, coffee-stealing asshole." 

"Who's about to make another pot and is willing to share."

A smile tugging at the corners of his lips, Stiles says, "Evil, nasty, miserable, coffee-stealing asshole that I could grow to love."

Derek's kiss tastes like Jamaica Blue Mountain, and Stiles thinks he could get used to waking up to one every day. As long as it came with coffee.


End file.
